


Crimson Chalk

by RicketyBones



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Brat GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Bruises, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, One Shot, Pining, Porn, Porn With Plot, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Trapeze
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicketyBones/pseuds/RicketyBones
Summary: The chalk accentuates George’s red lips, the colour of sacrifice and of desire, and Dream fights those connotations with every second he stares.-Flying Trapeze AU, where red chalk is used in place of the usual white.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 206





	Crimson Chalk

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a trapeze artist. I have done research for the beginning, though.  
> Shout out to Iva, who listened to my 700 word ramblings on discord and pushed me to turn it into a fic. <3

_Breathe_.

Dream stands atop the catch trap, on the lowest level of the trapeze, facing outwards. Somewhere above him, George is perched on the riser, waiting for his cue. He doesn’t allow himself to look up, not wanting to break his own focus. Instead he shakes each of his wrists loose and readjusts his grip, catching sight of his stained hands, red chalk in place of the usual white. Satisfied, he glances down at their instructor, who nods, giving him the all-clear.

_Lean in, lean out._

Building momentum, he thrusts his whole body into moving the bar. The first swing, and his legs feel a slight strain. The second, and his hair begins to fly. With the third swing, the wind rushes euphoria into his ears, his nerves splinter away into the atmosphere, and his mind is reduced to a single track.

_Legs up._

He seamlessly drops down into a crouch, swings again, before gracefully leaning backwards into his motion and hooking his knees completely over the trap. The timing perfect, he gives himself a moment of praise, then continues into one final swing, upside down this time. If he were to draw his mind away, he’d be able to see across a vast expanse of fields, but his vision remains blank as he can feel himself sinking back down, reaching terminal velocity, before, “Hup!”

_Ready._

George springs backwards off the board and Dream can only imagine how elegant he looks as he draws himself into a somersault. As he gains height once more, Dream holds his breath, bracing for impact.

Skin meets skin, arms interlock, and shoulders pull.

“Gotcha.”

Perfect timing, once again, and George follows him down, back through his swing. They move as one, as if they were merely extensions of one another. Slowing as they reach their peak, Dream can feel his arms begin to tense, veins peaking through tanned with his efforts. Though to an onlooker, their stunt would appear effortless after years of practise and perfect harmony.

Their eyes meet for just a second, both too concentrated to give a smile of approval. Instead they share a meaningful glance, thick with anticipation as they begin to course down, down, once again, and –

_Let go_.

George flies through the air, twists his body and grabs the fly bar, shot forward by another up on the board. Dream’s arms untense, loose as they are deprived of their extension, and he swings back, gradually slowing to a stop.

“Well done gentlemen,” their coach congratulates them as the pair of them make their way down off the trapeze, “Good work today.”

Dream smiles briefly at him in recognition, drops his bag of chalk at his own feet, before turning his focus on the approaching brunet. George’s dark hair is dishevelled from the afternoon of practise, and his slender hands, wrists and ankles are coated scarlet, stark against his fair complexion. The red chalk is usually nothing more than a _pain_ of a gimmick – even after hours spent scrubbing at skin, it doesn’t subside – but Dream enjoys how it paints George with delicate vulnerability and himself, power.

George spares him a quick smile, a silent nod to the success of their performance, which Dream reciprocates, tearing his lingering eyes away from the stains on his skin.

Their coach launches into a debrief and Dream finds his mind wandering away. His body aches from the unrelenting week and he wants nothing more than to leave and soak his muscles in the bath. Adjacent to him, George nods enthusiastically, appearing to take in every word. He will undoubtably reshare it all with Dream later, when they’re standing around watching another group’s practice, and Dream will undoubtably tune out once again.

“Dream?” George snaps, bringing his focus back.

_“Hmm?”_

“This is exactly what I mean,” the coach sighs. “Can you at least try to look like you enjoy this?”

Dream laughs nervously, “Uh, yeah, of course.”

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy trapeze – he really does. He just hates the constant screaming in his muscles, the callouses littered on his palms, and some of the people he gets partnered up with drive him insane with their uneven grips and choppy swings.

Nothing compares with the tricks he shares with George.

“You agree then? You’ll work together more?”

_Oh, he likes where this is going._

Dream’s face lights up and he gives George a cheeky grin, then leans forward and taps a chalk-covered hand against his bicep – a game they’ve played since they were teenagers, decorating each other with the chalk that burdens their existence.

George’s face sours as he looks down at the harsh fingerprints imprinted on his arm. “Oh, you bastard.”

Before Dream can react, George leans forward and swipes the chalk bag from the ground. He dips his hand in, shakes, then pushes a palm into Dream’s chest with playful force.

“You’re _so_ dead,” Dream responds with a grin, lurching forward.

George breaks into a run, making the mistake of dropping the bag in the process, allowing Dream to grab it and freshly coat his hands in red dust before chasing after him.

Behind them, their coach yells at them to stop, to _behave,_ but Dream effortlessly blocks him out, eyes locked on George as he swiftly gains on him, his height giving him an unfair advantage. He leaps forward and grabs at his friend’s forearm, just as he had a thousand times before up on the trapeze. His fingers wrap around, pressing tight against skin, and he feels a momentary rush of connection.

It doesn’t last long. George whips around, halted by the force, laughs, and presses a dry hand onto the side of Dream’s face. It causes him to drop his grip as he screws up his eyes, unwilling to get any stray chalk dust in them.

In his moment of disorientation, George tries to wriggle away, but Dream is too fast, placing a handprint onto his shoulder, then deftly doubling back to his thigh. George grins, diving down too, tapping Dream’s left calf.

A cloud of red dust envelope them as Dream lets his laugh project across the field. He figures he should make the most of George as he’s doubled over, so wraps his arms around his slim frame, and sweeps him off his feet. He forces his straining muscles straight up into the air, suspending the flier above him.

George doesn’t flail, instead tenses his body as he would in practice, so as to not knock Dream off his feet and bring them both crashing into the grass. He squeals, an exalted noise that tears through Dream like lightening – and he _relishes_ in it. Even after years of dictated stunts and forced connections on the trapeze, their touch feels refreshing as they move freely, two grins slapped playfully across their respective faces.

“Put me down, idiot,” George laughs from above him.

“Make me.”

It comes out harsher than he intended, boundaries lost in their moment of contact, but George continues giggling nonetheless.

“Put me _down,”_ he pouts, trying to bat his hands at the arms holding him steady.

Dream complies, lowering him gently, but George squirms as he does, pulling them both down until they’re laying in a tangled heap on the warm grass, panting from the comedown of their exhilaration.

Up close, George’s beauty is unparalleled. Second only, perhaps, to the goddess of love herself but, even then, it’d be a tight contest. The chalk accentuates George’s red lips, the colour of sacrifice and of desire, and Dream fights those connotations with every second he stares.

“You’re pretty,” he finds himself saying in a hushed whisper.

“So I’ve been told,” George responds in feigned arrogance, wearing a drowsy smile.

Dream scoffs. “Humble, too.”

George’s smile deepens into a grin as he playfully pushes back against Dream’s shoulder.

Over the course of a friendship, they had only ever been this close a handful of times. On the trapeze, it was different – they were one being, two cogs in a machine. The private intimacy of looking one another in the eye at such close range had only ever been restricted to drunken nights of rigid air and clouded intensions. A stolen kiss from years ago, vowed never to be spoken of again, manifesting itself every time wine brushes their lips, only to dissipate with the morning sun.

Shaking the thought, Dream leans forward and bops George’s nose with his red stained finger.

“Stop!” George swats away his hand with a wry smile, “You’ll make me look like a clown.”

“I mean –” Dream starts, before trailing off, instead opting to gesture at the trapeze through the clouds of desert sunset that still cling to the air around them.

George huffs.

Dream raises his hand once again and outstretches his index finger. “Do you surrender?”

George bites his lip, considering, before bringing his dyed palms up either side of his face as he acquiesces. “You can’t always win.”

“Can’t I?” Dream queries, raising his eyebrows.

Despite the front he wears, he can’t help but think of the times he has lost. Moments earlier, when he could have stolen a kiss; years before, when he stole the first. He thinks of the handprints that litter his body and how he wishes they were honest, and not just the by-product of their childish play.

George just shakes his head with a slight smile and a side-eye, but says nothing. They let the moment fade away as they lay there in the grass, bodies gently draped over each other.

It isn’t until later, when they’re both standing under the artificial light of the communal changing room, that Dream realises the extent of their red destruction. The rest of the trapeze artists are coated in dust in the usual places, making Dream and George look reminiscent of Renaissance sanguine drawings in comparison. 

Dream busies himself with wiping himself down with water from the faucet, deciding that if he were to step foot under the shower spray, he would probably stand there until his skin shrivels and the water runs cold. As the soap strips the top layers of the dye off, the sink fills with harsh red, yet Dream’s hands don’t lose any of their vibrance.

From the corner of his eye, he catches sight of George, inspecting the damage that litters his skin in a full-length mirror. He can’t bring himself to look away as George rests his own, smaller hand against Dream’s print on his shoulder. A shiver tickles his spine as he imagines his own hand there, in place of the print, feeling the warmth of George’s body. He imagines leaving a trail of mauve across his collar bones, teeth marks even more prominent than the red – marks that won’t wash away with water and sweat.

He finds his mind tracing back to a few months ago, when they’d been practising their cut catch. George had put a little too much momentum into his swing out, so Dream had botched his grip, blindly grabbing his arms harsher than he had intended. The next practice, he caught sight of the bruises forming as George methodically wrapped bandages around himself, and he couldn’t shake the image for weeks.

George glances up from his reflection and Dream finds their eyes meeting through the mirror. He wants to recoil in rehearsed shame, as he would during every drunken meet, but George holds his stare and gives him a characteristic smirk.

The atmosphere thickens. George turns his head slightly, all the while keeping his gaze evenly on Dream, revealing another handprint on the other side, at the base of his neck.

_How could he have missed that?_

Dream watches as George trails his hand across his clavicle, extending a single finger, and traces the outline of the red print. It’s delicate and leisurely and it takes Dream everything he has within him to not stride across the room and wrap his own hand around his neck, leaving even greater marks.

As if George can hear his thoughts, he transitions from one finger to his whole palm, opening up his hand. His palm hangs heavy over the larger print, just as it had on his shoulder, and he raises his head to extend his neck. Veins protrude, stark against pearlescent skin, and his sharp jawline juts into the air.

Dream lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The unwavering eye contact and sly smile stirs a feeling deep in his gut, one usually reserved only for the depths of the night, after hours of stolen kisses and insatiable touches, when his innate desires take control.

Then, as if they were still up on the trapeze, they’re pulled away. George gives him a wink, finally breaking their eye contact, as he removes his hand and disappears into the showers.

\--

As Dream waits in the car, unable to shake the image of George from his mind, he is transported back to their teenage years, when they had sat on a wall together in this very street, passing between them a paper bag after practice. The vodka had probably been stolen from his sister’s cabinet, he couldn’t exactly remember.

George, being a few years older, and having recently moved over from London, held his drink well, taking constant sips with only the slightest shard of a grimace on his face. Dream remembers his attempts to keep up, spluttering as his throat was punished with the burning liquid.

It didn’t take long until it reached his head, either. His thoughts had slowed, repeated, lingered, and his vision had tunnelled until all he saw was George. That day was the first time they had kissed. The liquid courage had set the precedent for all future occasions too, always unsure whether the memory would carry through until morning.

For Dream, it always did.

Today, he feels much the same as he had then, as he stares into the darkening sky. He knows his friend walks home after practice, what with him not owning a car (or even possessing a licence), so it’s no surprise when he spots him on the sidewalk.

From what he can see peaking out from the grey hoodie, George’s skin is scrubbed clean – not even faint crimson blemishes remain. The same cannot be said for Dream, who had half-heartedly doused himself in water, leaving his hands a light blush colour which stood out against his tanned arms.

“Get in,” he says through the wound-down window as George passes.

George furrows his brows as his vision focuses in the dusk. When he realises it’s Dream, his face breaks out into another smirk.

Dream feels like he’s becoming increasingly on the other end of them.

“Where are we going, Dreamie?” George asks as the car pulls away into the street, teasing undertones lacing his words. “Are you driving me home?”

The nickname stirs something within Dream.

It dissipates as soon as he turns his head briefly to the side and catches sight of George’s smug face. Anger unexpectedly emerges from its leftover shadow, spreading vines first down his arms, where it manifests in white knuckles clenched on the steering wheel, then to his head, where his mouth spits venom.

“Is this all some kind of a joke to you?” he fires, eyes flickering between the road ahead and the man in the passenger seat.

George scoffs, looking out of the side window at the passing buildings.

“Huh, is that it?” he pushes, foul words uncontrollably spilling from his tongue. “You thought you could pull that stunt in the changing room, try and _turn me on_ , just for kicks?”

His words thicken the air until treacle fills his lungs, weighing him down in his seat, regret already sinking into his bones and tugging at his stomach. Though, what he regrets, he’s not quite sure.

“Is that really what you think?” George spits in return, turning his face away from the street, drilling his eyes into Dream’s throbbing temple. “Do you think I keep letting you stick your tongue down my throat _just for kicks?”_

Dream is quiet for a moment, before giving a scornful shake of his head. “I don’t know what I think anymore.”

The air shifts once again as they fall quiet for just a moment.

“Well, do you want to know what I think?” George offers, voice low, raw, enticing. “I think you need to stop staring at the bar, and finally commit to the jump.”

As the car slows, George leans across to the driver’s side. Dream shivers as warm air strokes the side of his face, but he doesn’t bring himself to turn his head.

George keeps his voice low as he channels his words directly into his ear, “Are you driving me home, Dream?”

_Or will you take the leap?_

The suggestion hangs heavy in the car as they pull up to an intersection, silence interrupted only by the ticking of the blinkers. Red light spills into the car, reflecting off the dashboard and illuminating their faces – familiar, dangerous.

A left turn for George’s place, straight on for Dream’s.

Left – towards the shared apartment, where they’ll share a brief moment together as they had a hundred times before, inevitably departing outside, not wanting to disturb his roommates – or straight on – into unfamiliar territory and a world of possibility, giving an end to ceaseless stolen glances and empty provocative suggestions.

The warm breath settling on Dream’s cheek sedates his anger, rots the vines in his arms as his fists unclench from around the wheel. He reluctantly lifts his hand and cancels the turn signal.

George leans back into his seat, satisfied grin spreading across his face.

The red light is stolen from the car, flowing through orange and settling on green.

Dream slams his foot onto the accelerator.

He drives over the speed limit, anticipation rife throughout his body. Dream had done this drive a thousand times before but never with such an urgency, never with George beside him. The skyscrapers and city lights are suffocating in the thick air, pushing down onto the car with inexplicable force. Evanescent in their passing, streams of luminosity flash across the faces of two of them as they course down the avenue.

A quick side-glance reveals George’s gaze on him, eyes transfixed on the flickering light across his cheek like a moth to a flame.

The car stops abruptly outside Dream’s apartment and he cuts the engine with continued haste. In one swift movement, he leans across and fists his hands into the collar of George’s hoodie, pulling him into a demanding kiss.

_Sacrifice and desire._

Without their usual inhibitions, a spark ignites between them, as it if were the first time they had ever touched.

He feels George’s lips push back against his own with unsatiated hunger and Dream trails his tongue across the sea of pink, chasing George’s between their mouths. He draws their faces brutally together with his teeth, and their bodies across the centre console with his hands.

George lifts his own hands up and knots his fingers into Dream’s blond locks, pulling them closer still. Just like up on the trapeze, their embrace is harsh. It’s unforgiving.

It’s _electric_.

“Fuck,” Dream moans into the kiss.

George smiles into his lips, before breaking away.

“You’ve been holding out on me, Dream,” he breathes.

Dream chuckles, “You have no idea.”

He leans in again, softer this time, chasing away the relentlessness of before and leaving behind only passion. With that, and the fact they’re seated in a car, Dream thinks that this is what first kisses are supposed to be like. Lips sweet as vermouth but without the burn.

As he melts into the kiss, Dream feels the gear stick press into his hip and it snaps him back into reality.

“Get out the car,” he orders suddenly, voice gravelly.

Another change of pace.

Clearly, George doesn’t need asking twice as he clambers out with urgency. Dream does the same, dizzy with lust.

He grabs at George’s arm as he makes his way onto the sidewalk. Their hands interconnect with a familiar pull as he drags the brunet down the path and towards the door to his ground floor apartment.

With his other hand, Dream fumbles through the pocket in his jeans and produces a key, not wanting to waste any time. As he deals with the lock, George wrapped a hand around him from behind, cold fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and pushing underneath.

“Hurry up,” he groans at Dream, who rolls his eyes, but succeeds in swinging the door open with passionate force.

Dream brings his arm up and pulls George’s hand out from between the fabric and his chest, dragging him into the apartment.

George kicks the door shut behind him, and Dream doesn’t leave a moment before he is slamming him into it and pushing into a kiss as rough as the first. His fingers meet the hem of George’s hoodie as he pushes upwards and makes contact with skin.

George grins as they touch.

“Do you ever stop smiling?” Dream asks as he takes a step backwards, lightly tugging George with him, away from the front door and towards his bedroom.

George’s answer is simple as he leans forward to win another peck, which Dream grants him. “Never for you.”

They crash through the bedroom door harsher than they had the first – as told by the almighty bang as the handle collides with his wall – and coarse straight through until they reach the bed. Dream pushes George’s legs against the mattress but holds on, not letting him fall just yet.

Instead, he lowers his hands once again and pulls the hoodie up and over George’s head. His hair ruffles just as it does after a day of stunts, and Dream finds his mind wandering to the afternoon. The red marks littered all over his pale skin, how he wished they were purple, by his design.

He dives for George’s neck and sinks his teeth in, hearing a breathy moan escape from the other man’s lips.

George tugs at his shirt with a groan, willing Dream to break away and pull it off. As he does, George sinks onto the bed, strewn on his back across the mattress.

Dream catches sight of the first few bruises as he looks down at his tempter. Some a deep mauve, others a blush red, both stirring arousal within him.

“Fuck, how I’ve wanted this, ” He breathes, chasing George down to the bed. “How I’ve wanted _you_.”

George grins as Dream reaches for his hands, interlacing their fingers together, familiar hands in an unfamiliar grip. He pushes them up until they’re pinned on the mattress above a nest of dark hair, then leans forwards into a passionate kiss, before tracing his lips down George’s neck and along his collar bones, sure to leave marks as he goes. Years of yearning, coming to fruition over George’s body.

“You’ve got me,” George responds, writhing under Dream’s touch. “Now use me.”

The words echo around Dream’s head, a ring of _use me, use me, use me_. They stir within him something greater than desire, something primal.

_Paint the town red._

Dream grinds down, heavy and unforgiving, his hands still locked on George’s. Below him, George thrusts up to meet him, and Dream groans with filthy intensity at the increased harshness of their contact.

“Please,” George breathes, his harmonies delicately cloaking Dream’s vulgarity, “Touch me.”

Dream has half a mind to chastise his neediness, make him beg until his words flow deliquescent from chewed lips, but he can’t hold himself back as he’s removing his hands and tugging down at George’s sweatpants.

His own hard-on aches as his eyes meet the wetness on George’s underwear where precum had leaked.

Dream tuts, ghosting his hands over the fabric “Look at you, I haven’t even touched you get and you’re already fucking wrecked.”

“Then get on with it!” George responds through gritted teeth.

Eerie silence chases the desperate words as they fall on unforgiving ears. Dream halts the movement of his hands.

“What did you say to me?” he interrogates with a voice forged from fire.

“ _Please_ ,” George implores breathlessly, eyes flickering between Dream’s hands and his face with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Dream grins, leaves one hand hovering over George’s bulge and brings the other up, up to his neck.

“Maybe this will help you remember who’s in charge.”

George nods frantically and Dream raises his eyebrows expectantly, requesting greater confirmation.

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” he spills in breathy moans, surrendering himself to Dream.

Dream wraps slender fingers around George’s throat, feeling the bob of his Adam’s apple beneath his palm. At the same time, he uses his other hand to palm at George through the thin layer of fabric that separates electric contact.

George begins to melt under his touch, filthy moans escaping his lips, but maintains eye contact in anticipation of more.

Dream isn’t one to disappoint. Just like up on the trapeze, George completely gives himself over to Dream, and Dream revels in the control.

So, he tightens the hand he had around George’s throat, and _squeezes._

Dream watches as the man below him falls apart. George’s eyes roll back in unfettered bliss and his body shudders gently at the touch.

As Dream stares, the strain in his pants grows, unrelenting.

He lets his hand slip under the band of George’s underwear and runs his thumb over his tip, causing the man beneath him to squirm. He lets go of George’s throat as he does, watching the rush of euphoria hit him twice over.

George pouts as Dream retracts his hand, but he’s unwilling to give too much too soon. He wants this to last, he’s waited long enough.

“You’re such a tease,” George groans, reaching his hand down and brushing the bulge in Dream’s sweatpants.

Dream melts into the touch as his vision blurs. He lets George win, just for a moment, as he continues to lightly stroke George beneath the fabric.

“And that’s a surprise to you?” he jokes, despite the heavy truth it’s based in.

“Unfortunately,” George responds quietly, looking up and settling his gaze on Dream’s own.

His eyes plead for _more_ as his mouth lets slip shaky breaths and gentle moans.

Dream chuckles, “Unfortunately?”

He leans away, letting George’s hand fall away from his erection, before pulling away at the rest of George’s clothes. He watches as George’s cock reaches up to meet his stomach, and halts for a moment, taking in the sight before him.

Pale skin, not unfamiliar to him after years of close contact, covered in flourishing bruises instead of its usual dusty red.

“God,” he breathes, “You’re gorgeous.”

George blushes, brings his arms up to his chest, and gives a timorous smile, uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“Don’t get all shy on me now, George,” Dream lightly scolds.

He brings a lightly-stained hand up to George’s cheek, runs it across freckles like scattered constellations, then traces his fingers down his jaw and across the various bites and contusions that litter his neck. As he does, he can almost see the red ghosts of the prints he trails in his wake.

George fumbles at Dream’s hand, “Please.”

Dream leans in close, breathing heavy on George’s neck, “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“Touch me, ruin me,” George pleads, the pet name causing him to further unfold. “Whatever you do, stop being such a _fucking_ tease.”

Dream raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Instead, he reaches over to his bedside table and opens the drawer, retrieving a small bottle of lube and tossing it onto the bed. The assortment of toys lay neglected as he closes it again, and he thinks _next time._

There _will_ be a next time.

He roughly places his hands on George’s thighs, pale and unmarked, digging his thumbs in harshly as he forces his legs apart.

“Don’t be gentle,” George challenges, as if he hadn’t already given over his throat to Dream’s disposal.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Dream grows as he brings one hand back to George’s cock, gently teasing it once more, aware of how dry his hands are as the brunet groans at his touch. “I wasn’t planning on playing nice.”

With his other hand, he grabs at the lube bottle and pops the cap with his thumb. He parts his grip from George so he can coat his fingers in the liquid, then teases George’s rim with a single cool touch.

Groaning at the sensation – and lack thereof – George motions to grab at his disregarded erection but is stopped by Dream’s dry hand seizing his wrist. Hard, but not hard enough to leave a mark like he would have desired, knowing George would have been a bitch about it when they’re back up on the trapeze.

“Stop,” he growls, pushing a single finger past George’s rim, causing him to gasp obscenely.

Dream pauses, allowing George to adjust, and waits to receive a nod before he slowly glides in and out. He watches George collapse beneath him at just one finger, desperate to see how he’ll react to more.

He leans forward to dust kisses along George’s pale thighs as he simultaneously presses in a second finger. His stubble scratches at the delicate skin and his slick fingers move in a light scissoring motion, winning Dream a myriad of profanities which escape George’s swollen lips and fill the room with pleasure.

“You’re so pretty,” Dream whispers, echoing his earlier words with less innocence than they held in the afternoon air, “So pretty, just for me.”

Two fingers become three, and George’s moans build to a filthy crescendo as Dream brushes his prostate.

“Enough, _please_ ,” George whines as he tries to move into Dream’s touch.

“Are you sure, I don’t –”

“I’m ready,” he cries in desperation, an image which is also plastered across his blushing face.

When Dream doesn’t remove his fingers, George reiterates, “I’m _ready_.”

Dream retracts his hand, earning a whimper, as he strips himself from the remainder of his clothing. His cock springs up to hit his stomach, and he wraps his palm around it, alleviating the tense neglect he feels.

“Hey,” George protests, “If I don’t get to touch myself then –”

Dream hushes his fallen angel strewn across the white sheets, eyes wild with anticipation, as he reaches back for the discarded bottle of lube and coats himself in the cool liquid.

He lines himself up with George’s rim but doesn’t push, not yet. George tries to grind his body down, but Dream pins one hand roughly to his hip, impeding his movements. With the other hand, he reaches back for George’s decorated neck.

A silent promise.

Dream enters slowly, careful to react to each of the brunet’s slightest movements as he comes undone beneath him.

“Dream,” George pleads, Dream’s name like symphonies on his tongue, “ _Please_.”

Dream continues to push in slowly until he bottoms out, hips lips releasing a deep moan that reverberates around the room.

He holds still for a moment to give George time to adjust and their eyes make silent connection; it’s the moment of security before they let go and launch into a turbulent display.

Dream builds his pace rapidly until he is slamming into him with unrelenting force. George cries out, volume unabashed as his voice tears straight through the moans which fill the bedroom.

“Yes,” George spills rhapsodies uncontrollably from his lips, “Yes, _yes_.”

Dream repeats his motion, each time earning a strangled noise as George shakes beneath him. He thrusts with all the passion of a soulmate connection and none of the beauty, nullified by years of mistakes and yearning. Though – he thinks as he looks down at the plucked rose below him – if he could do it all over again, he would do it just the same.

The hand he rests around George’s neck grows heavy, willing him to squeeze. He grips tighter than before, watching as George falls quiet beneath him, eyes tightly held shut.

“Look at me,” Dream commands as he slows his hips to a tantalising pace.

As George opens his eyes, Dream catches slight of the blissful ecstasy that flashes across his face.

“If only you could see yourself,” Dream says as he stares down at his hand wrapped around George’s purple-stained neck, “Everyone at practice is going to know how much of a _slut_ you are.”

He builds his speed up again, watches as George’s lips move to silently contest, then –

_Lets go._

Dream slams into George as he watches the oxygen rush back into his head, hears the breathy moans recommence, sees the assortment of marks that adorn his perfect body.

George’s hands claw at his back in desperation, and Dream’s own sink deeply into billows of flesh as he thrusts, hips moving with unrestrained desire.

“Touch me,” George says as he arches his back.

Dream doesn’t alter his grip. “Beg.”

“ _What?_ ” George splutters out incredulously.

“Beg for me.”

The words hold unbridled power, as if they were chalky hands clutching onto thin wrists.

“Please, I’m close _. Please, please_ , make me yours, Dream, _make me yours_ ,” he babbles with only slight coherence as Dream angles to hit his prostate with every thrust.

“You are mine,” Dream asserts as he reaches down and wraps a hand around George. “Up there, down here, always mine.”

Dream watches his wrist rise and fall before trailing his eyes back up to George’s face as they reach their cadence. Tousled hair, a neck of heather, and lips that spill desire – all melting into the sheets, all his.

Maybe George was wrong, maybe he _can_ always win.

As he watches George spill into his hand, he can feel his own climax building. His movements grow erratic and George’s moans turn to whimpers as Dream offers him hums of reassurance through his overstimulation.

“Can I –”

“Yes, yes, _please_ ,” George confirms as Dream reaches his final thrusts, “Inside me.”

Dream loses himself in George, in pleasure. Fire spreads from his core, combusting into flames that encompass his body as he chases through his release.

“Wow,” he pants, collapsing on the bed next to George, “That was –”

“Long-awaited?”

Dream rolls his eyes. “George! You really want to do this now?”

“Mhm,” George responds with a smile as he buries his face in Dream’s chest.

Though, it isn’t until later, when they’re both clean and standing in Dream’s kitchen – George with a green tea for his throat, and Dream, for once, without a drink – that the topic comes up again.

“Why now?” Dream asks, leaning back onto the granite counter top, “Why not sooner?”

The question hangs low in their silence. It’s partially directed at himself – _why had he chosen to act now?_ – but mostly this day had been George’s doing. Their childish antics had never spiralled into anything more, handprints merely being passing relics of hidden fantasies.

“Because I couldn’t bear to lose you,” George responds, finally, and with newfound honesty. “I saw how your love for trapeze was faltering and I was scared. Scared that you’d quit and never spare me another thought.”

Dream doesn’t know what to say, he wants to assure George he never would have quit, but that would be a lie, he still might. He wants to say he would never forget George, which would be true, but he doesn’t think he ever would have reached out, out of sheer heartache and regret.

Instead of a response, Dream leans across the counter and grabs a discarded bag of red chalk, accidentally brought home last week, and dips his fingers in, dusting the floor below him. He brings a hand up to George, painting over the mauve prints on his neck, emphasising them.

“That’s just another thing you’ll have to clean up,” George says quietly.

It doesn’t matter, though, none of it matters now. Whatever their team mates have to say at the sight of George doesn’t matter. Whatever their coach has to say about the dangers of improper holds doesn’t matter. They have each other, as they always had, and they have clarity – their feelings encased in a glass cabinet instead of a bottle wrapped in brown paper.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! if you enjoyed, be sure to leave kudos or perhaps consider coming to talk to me on tumblr (drowninginmycornflakes).


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